by Dalia Wright
He had left two days ago, and she was feeling the emptiness of the manor without him. The afternoons dragged on as she missed their chats in the garden or the walks through the woods. He hadn’t quite abandoned her, she was left in the competent hands of Godfrey and the always amiable Mrs. Tinsley, the housekeeper.
Mrs. Tinsley had become a trusted confidante. She had been tasked with educating Imogen on the daily management of the manor and over their daily lessons had become close. It felt good to be able to unburden herself especially with the anxieties and tension of learning everything you knew was a lie. She was slowly coming to accept that this was her life now. She belonged here, not behind a counter in a butcher shop hawking poultry cuts.
This morning’s lesson was how to prepare and serve a formal tea service. The delicate intricacies of serving tea were beyond Imogen. She was usually eager to meet Mrs. Tinsley at the kitchen table and take in a new skill, however, today she was in a mood and Mrs. Tinsley could feel it.
“My lady, what’s got you all tied up in knots?
Nothing Mrs. Tinsley, I apologize.” She picked up a tea cup, “Where were we?” Mrs. Tinsely took the cup from her hand.
“M’lady, why don’t you take a walk in the gardens? We’ve had enough of this. Cook will be wanting her kitchen table.”
The cook, Mrs. Ambrose was a lady you didn’t want to cross. She was a jolly woman with considerable epicurean skills but ran her kitchen with a stern hand. Imogen nodded in agreement, having had warnings from Cook, she wasn’t eager to have another. She made her way to the back garden and gazed out at the rows of boxwood hedging the manicured lawn. A path leading into a tangle of brush and shrubbery caught her attention. “A perfect adventure,” and she was off.
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The footpath wound its way through a grove of birch and ash trees, streams of sunlight cutting through the forest canopy lighting the shadows. The path wound its way along the rock and grass covered forest floor stopping at the edge of the wood and opening into a fenced pasture. In the distance, she could see the stables and coach house and made her way to it.
The stables were more of a rustic barn with weathered oak plank walls and a pitched cedar shingle roof. The earthy smell of the wood and hay brought her senses back to Mrs. Wharton’s and her straw mattress in the attic. She wondered about the girls, as much as she avoided them, she did miss the feeling of having people around. The sounds of laughing, pots clanging and skirmishes over clothing had become oddly comforting. Here, in a rambling manor isolated in the country, she felt very alone and so wished she could hear those silly girls again.
The steady beat of hoofs ended her day dreaming. A black horse and rider barreled across the meadow towards her, coming to a stop at the pasture gate.
“Can I help you?” his tone was sharp and altogether unfriendly.
“No,” was all she could muster.
The rider slid off the saddle and exited the paddock. She surmised him to be in his late twenties. He was handsome and probably knew it, with deep-set blue-green eyes set against lightly tanned skin topped with a curly mess of black hair. His expression at the moment was as sharp and unwelcome as his tone.
“If I can’t help you, can I ask what you’re doing here at my stables?”
His stables? What was he talking about? Had she followed the path onto a neighboring property?
“I thought this was the Black Grove stable, I apologize for intruding.”
“It is Black Grove stables. So I ask you again, how can I help you?”
“What’s your name?" she was baffled by his impertinence.
“I can ask you the same Miss,” he countered.
“Really sir? I don’t understand your rudeness. What I have done to encourage your ire?”
He turned from her to open the gate and retrieve his horse, walking it past her into the stable. She followed behind, lifting the hem of her dress to avoid dragging it through the mud and muck.
“Well…,” she started. He ignored her and took to removing the tack from the horse. “I asked you your name sir.”
“I asked you yours,” he countered.
Imogen was getting more annoyed by the moment. For a month now she had made Black Grove Manor her home staying close to the main house and on her first adventure, she stumbles across the stable and one very argumentative gentleman. ‘Humph…no gentleman here, she scoffed.’ Until this moment, she had found the staff of Black Grove to be helpful and kind except Godfrey, who was always cross, but she had decided that was just his nature.
“My name sir, if you insist on knowing is Lady Imogen Elizabeth Rhodes,” she spun on her heels and stormed off down the path to the thicket. She surprised herself with how good it felt to say that. It was the first time she had spoken her full name and title aloud, it felt strange as if she was introducing someone else. ‘I will have to get used to it,’ she thought and said it aloud for a second time, “Lady Imogen Elizabeth Rhodes.”
“I heard you the first time.”
She stopped; frozen by mortification mixed with anger.
“I’m Charlie,” his voice had softened. “You caught me off guard, I’d like to apologize.”
“Off guard?” she spun to face him. He was kneeling in the mud, one hand outstretched to shake hers the other holding a cap to his chest. He looked ridiculous in this contrite position. His handsome face had probably broken many hearts, and she wasn’t going to let him charm her now. She took his hand as she couldn’t allow herself to be rude.
“Pleasure to meet you, Isobel,” he drew back his hand and clambered to stand, wiping off the twigs and pebbles clinging to his muddied knees.
“My name is not Isobel, it’s Imogen. I can’t say it’s been a pleasure meeting you. Now, if you will pardon me, sir, I need to return to the manor.” She started to turn and felt his hand on her arm.
“Wait, I know your name is Imogen. It was a joke. A bad joke, but a joke nonetheless.” He seemed genuinely apologetic. “I am, truly sorry.”
She knocked off his hand, “Are you sorry or are you trying to retain your position?”
“Position?” he laughed which made her uncomfortable. “You think I’m the stableman?” He stopped, noticing the look of confusion on her face. “I’m not employed by Jonathon,” he paused a beat, “He’s my uncle.”
Chapter Six
Jonathon had just stepped in the vestibule, his camel hair coat barely off one shoulder when he was accosted by Godfrey. “Good lord man,” he slid off the coat, “A simple hello would suffice.”
“Pardon me, sir, I have unexpected news of some importance.”
“Godfrey?” he was taken back by his butler’s fervent tone “Is it Lady Imogen? Has something happened?”
“No sir, Lady Imogen is quite well. It’s your cousin Sir Charles…”
Johnathan stopped him midsentence, “Charles?”
“Yes sir, he is in the library, his bags were sent to the guest room.”
“Right, that’s perfect Godfrey. I see he’s arrived early.”
“Yes, sir. He caught us off guard. We weren’t expecting a visitor.”
“I don’t know how that slipped my mind old boy. And Lady Imogen?”
“Lady Imogen is in her room sir, with a headache.”
“Really?” he handed Godfrey his coat, “I shall go say hello.”
“Yes sir, of course. Will you be needing anything?”
“Does Mrs. Ambrose know we have a guest for dinner?
“Yes sir, she’s preparing Sir Charles his favorite dessert?
“Excellent,” he patted Godfrey’s shoulder, “That will do.”
Jonathon gently knocked on Imogen’s door. A second light rap elicited a response. “Come in.” He turned the brass handle and entered into Imogen’s bedroom. He crossed the room and sat on the chair next to her bed. “Hello, my dear Godfrey tells me you aren’t well…a headache is it?
“Jonathon, you’re home,” she sat upright in the bed. “I didn�
��t think you were due until the weekend.”
“I had hoped to surprise you.”
“I’m so glad you’re back.”
“I will leave you to rest. I came up to say hello and see if you will be coming down for dinner.”
“Dinner? What time is it? She started pulling back the bed covers, and he stopped her.
“You have another hour or so before you need to get out of bed.” He pulled the duvet back up to her chest, “Rest a little longer and I will have Mrs. Tinsely come up to help you dress for dinner.” He took her hand and gently kissed it before heading out of the room. Before he could reach the door, she asked, “Jonathon, who is Charles?”
He stopped and turned to face her, “Charles? Have you met Charles?”
“Yes. I found the stables and Charles this morning. Why hadn’t you told me to expect a visitor?
“Surprise.” He smiled wide and was met with a scowl from Imogen. “I will see you at dinner,” and closed the bedroom door behind him.
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Imogen entered the library dressed in a delicate silk gown embellished with beads and lace. The gown had been a gift from Jonathon. Her hair was piled high on top of her head in the swirled pompadour style of the day. She looked like a proper lady. Jonathon and Charles rose from their seats as she entered.
Jonathon was the first to compliment her, “You look beautiful Imogen. How are you feeling?”
“Much better, thank you.” She took a seat on the leather sofa and waited to hear why they had a visitor whom Jonathan had chosen to keep a secret. Charles spoke to break the icy silence “Were you not feeling well Lady Imogen?”
Her green eyes flashed in his direction. She hadn’t enjoyed their first meeting and was not keen on having to make conversation now. “Just a headache sir.” She hoped her voice had sounded calm and sweet and without the disdain she was feeling for him. A knock on the door broke the tension, it was Godfrey announcing dinner was served. Jonathon offered his arm to Imogen and escorted her to the dining room.
This was her first experience eating in the formal dining room. Up until now she had been having dinner in the library with Jonathon, and if he was away, she took her dinner in her bedroom. The room was grand, with walls painted a deep, luxurious red juxtaposed against the dark wood wainscoting. Gold moldings matched many of the gilded frames on the portraiture. Hung from the vaulted ceiling, a magnificent glass chandelier with three tiers of sparkling icicle drops. The dinner table was covered by a fine linen cloth and a table service which consisted of various sizes of plates, glasses and silverware.
Imogen was feeling overwhelmed by the pomp and circumstance and terrified she would choose the wrong utensil when dinner was served. Jonathon sensed her trepidation, “There’s nothing to worry about, it’s just a dinner.” He picked up his napkin and demonstrated how to fold it and place it one’s lap. “Step one accomplished.” She followed suit, as did Charles.
Godfrey entered with the soup service, as he set down Imogen’s bowl he slyly pointed to the appropriate spoon. She smiled in return, ‘perhaps I was wrong, and we will be friends’ she mused. Much to her fancy he performed this kindness with each course, he presented to her. The dinner was exceptionally long and without much conversation save from general pleasantries. Jonathon was seated at the head of the table and her at the foot with Charles on the side in closer proximity to Jonathon. Even if they had wanted to have a discussion, it seemed an impossibility due to the sheer size of the table.
All three exited to the study, a more intimate room conducive to conversation. As Charles poured himself a glass of port, he expounded on his meeting with Imogen apologizing again for his brash behavior. Imogen could feel herself soften, he was Jonathon’s nephew and a guest, it would best if they could manage to get on.
Jonathon motioned to Charles as he poured himself a drink, “Charlie, tell her why I’ve asked you to visit.”
“Of course,” he turned to Imogen, “I’ve been asked to…” he paused framing his answer in the best way he could, “to help get you ready.”
“Get ready? What do you mean?”
“Well, he actually asked my sister Lorelei, but she’s still in the Americas and won’t be returning for a month so I volunteered.”
“Volunteered for what? I’m not understanding…”
“The London season will be starting soon; you have a lot to do before you’re ready to come out.”
“Come out? Jonathon, what is he talking about?”
Jonathon crossed the room and took Imogen’s hand leading her to sit by the fireplace. The mystery of the issue was becoming too much to bear.
“Can you please just explain what’s going on?”
“You’re a young woman with a title and inheritance, you must be introduced to the right people, the right families. You’re not a grocery clerk from Mrs. Wharton’s anymore Imogen. We had hired a tutor but received word they would be unable to make the trip; family problems I believe. Then I received a letter from Charlie, he was coming for a short stay, and I suddenly realized, we could kill two birds with one stone.”
“Surely Charles must have a reason for coming and I don’t think it involves my education.”
Charles got himself a drink and motioned to Imogen, “She’s right. I did have a reason.” He turned to look at her, “I came to escape London.”
Jonathon chimed in, “You mean escape Miss. Townshend.”
This revelation sparked her interest, “Miss Townshend?”
“Miss Townshend,” Charlie began, “is a very lovely girl who has decided to marry me. However, I do not share her sentiments. I thought a visit to Black Grove was needed. It had been months since my last stay.”
Jonathon broke in, “Charlie knows better than most the London season and who’s who so I thought we could help each other.”
“I see,” Imogen rose from the sofa, “I’m sure I’m in good hands. Now if you will excuse me gentlemen I’m going to retire.”
“Good night Imogen,” Charles smiled wide, “Tomorrow we begin.”
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Imogen climbed into her bed. She was feeling more than tired, but when she closed her eyes, she saw Charles kneeling in the dirt, a Cheshire grin on his face. He looked as smug as the cat that ate the canary, and she felt as though she was would be his next quarry. There was something strangely compelling about this Jack the lad. These new and unfamiliar feelings were uncomfortable and as much as she had Mrs. Tinsely to confide in she wished that Rebecca was there to guide her.
Chapter Seven
Charles was filling a plate from breakfast trays on the sideboard as Imogen entered the dining room. “Why are we eating in here,” she asked.
Charles spun nearly dropping his plate, “Good lord, you scared me.”
“I usually have breakfast in the kitchen. Why are we in here?”
“Well as Jonathon said, you’re not a shop girl anymore.”
“What does that have to do with breakfast?”
“That means breakfast is as good a time as any to teach you how the gentry behave.” He pointed to a book beside the tea pot, “That’s for you.”
Imogen picked it up to read the title. ‘The Ladies' Book of Etiquette, and Manual of Politeness by Florence Hartley.’ “It tis rather large isn’t it?”
“I found it in the library; every woman should have one. He pulled out a chair to sit, “I hope it’s of use to you.”
She set down the book and took to arranging her breakfast plate before sitting across the table from Charles. He took a long sip of coffee as he stared at Imogen picking at her sausage and eggs. In the few weeks of his stay, she had grown under his skin. She was stunning, naive and innocent of all the games women he was accustomed to played. A little bird, that’s what she brought to a mind. A timid little creature, fragile in all ways. Her modest femininity intrigued him. The way she fluttered about the manor, oblivious of her beauty, made him feel things he hadn’t for some time.
<
br /> A part of him wanted to keep her sheltered in this country manor, far from the frivolities and foolishness of London’s society and its strict, rigid rules of conduct. Yet, another part wanted to open her up like a flower and taste her. He watched her as she brought the spoon up to her mouth, she had an innate grace and fluidity to how she moved, and it intoxicated him.
Jonathon came in for his breakfast and drew his attention from Imogen. “Good morning all,” as he took his seat. “How is everyone this fine morning?” Charles nodded as he raised his cup of coffee, “Morning chap.”
“Good morning Jonathon,” chirped Imogen. “It was a lovely morning until I received this,” she pointed to the rather thick etiquette manual, “I’m beginning to realize just how difficult a feat it will be to become Lady Rhodes.”
Jonathon picked up the book, “Where did this come from?”
“Charles found it in the library.”
“Well Charlie, aren’t you the clever one.” He took a bite of his breakfast and set down the fork, “I will be leaving this afternoon and should return by the weekend. I’m looking forward to seeing your progression love.”
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Love? This was the first time Jonathon had referred to her as anything but Imogen. It stirred something in her. Just last night she had laid her head on the pillow thinking of Charles, now she was feeling a twinge in her stomach and having notions of Jonathon. She watched the men carefully as they conversed over their morning meal.
Charles was closer to her in age, attractive but cocksure. His humor and cheek were not unlike boys she had met at village fairs. They would chase the girls, tease them and run away. He was, in fact, running from a girl presently. Who was this Miss Townshend? She imagined a smartly dressed young woman who attended balls and knew all the dances. What was so wrong about her that he had to flee London?
Jonathon was handsome in a different sense. When they had first met, his eyes were the color of stormy waters, a gray blue bordered by thick eyelashes. Eyelashes she was envious of. Now there was a softness to his eyes that pulled her in whenever they had the opportunity to spend time together. He was older, not quite forty, the wrinkles on his face gave him character. She loved how his smile was slightly higher on one side of his mouth and that his nose crinkled whenever he read something disagreeable to him.
